


From the Hand Unbidden

by turtle_wexler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bisexual Hermione Granger, Brief Hermione/Sirius, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, House Elves, Minor Character Death, Severus Snape Lives, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Unspeakable Severus Snape, background Ginny/Cho, previous Hermione/Luna, suicide: dark ritual, the one who performs the dark ritual is not Severus or Hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25446619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtle_wexler/pseuds/turtle_wexler
Summary: Terry was still a boy when he faded away. Only nineteen. Years later, Hermione catches the echo of him in Sirius’s face. A certain slant of light, a different tilt to his smile, and there he is: the boy she failed. Working with Snape in the Department of Mysteries leads her down old, familiar paths. She cannot fail this time.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 278
Kudos: 221
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the poem "Everything is Going to be All Right" by Derek Mahon. I highly recommend looking up Andrew Scott's reading of it. 
> 
> Thank you to Morbidmuch for bouncing ideas with me for this one. 💖 This fic will be updating every Wednesday.

Terry was still a boy when he faded away. Only nineteen. The war had made all of them too old, but he was just a kid.

Minutes before he went, Hermione thought about how glad she was to have a familiar face with her in the Death Chamber. She hated the cold rows of empty benches where wizards and witches used to sit and gawk at public executions. Every mutter from beyond the Veil sounded like the voice of someone she knew—someone she had lost.

"There's a snag." Terry said, pointing his wand at the fluttering Veil. "I can feel it, can't you?"

His last words.

There would be inquests, eventually. Why were two Junior Unspeakables allowed to work without supervision? What had caused the rift in the Veil? Where had Terry gone? Neat little answers, all locked up tight in the Department Head's filing cabinet. But in that moment, there was only confusion and flashes of light and Hermione's screams.

Terry was there, and then he wasn't. He flickered and faded against the bright Veil, drifting apart as Hermione threw hoarse, panicked spells at him. She turned in a circle. Nothing. He did not appear on one of the empty benches like a gloating stage magician. He was _gone_.

The Veil blew outwards with such force that it knocked Hermione off of her feet. When she finally got her bearings, Terry's body was back, but it was no longer him. Bones shifted and skin rippled as if under the influence of Polyjuice before settling on someone she recognised.

Sirius.

* * *

_Nine years later_

It had been nearly a decade, but Hermione still caught the echo of Terry in Sirius's face now and then. A certain slant of light, a different tilt to his smile, and there he was: the boy she'd failed.

There was no danger of any such optical illusions when Sirius sat at his fucking desk. God, Hermione loathed that thing. It was enormous, better suited to Hagrid or Grawp. After Sirius had become the owner of the Chudley Cannons (a dare from Ron), he'd decided he needed an office. As far as Hermione could tell, he mostly used said office (Regulus's old room) as a place to hide when she asked him to break out a few cleaning charms now and then.

"Don't worry so much, love," he said, propping his feet on the desk and tilting his chair back on two legs. "Kreacher will take care of it."

Kreacher always bloody took care of it. Years ago, Hermione hadn't expected Sirius to want Kreacher's service again, considering all that had happened. He certainly didn't need a servant. She took a secret joy in Kreacher's occasional mutters about how much he preferred brave Regulus.

"I'm not asking Kreacher," she said. "I'm asking _you_. If you don't… You know what? Never mind. I don't have time for this. I have to go to work. We can talk about this when I get home."

"Looking forward to it."

Hermione ignored him. If she actually let herself reply, she would lash out and say things that could not be unsaid.

Being pursued by Sirius had been almost addictive at first. It had reminded her of the thrill of heads turning at the Yule Ball, minus the tedium of hours spent locked up with a bottle of Sleekeazy's. But they couldn't carry on like this, with her being the Wendy to his Peter Pan.

Stomping down the stairs (which _she_ had sanded and refinished), Hermione checked the many pockets of her indigo work robes. Wand, keys, purse, spare vials of cerebrospinal fluid, bottle of omega 3 supplements. Right. Ignoring Walburga's shrieks from the front of the house, she threw a pinch of Floo powder into the grate and stepped into the fire with a clear shout of, "Ministry of Magic."

Hermione nodded back at people who greeted her as she crossed the atrium and entered the lift, her mind already on her work. Something about the entrance hall of the Department of Mysteries always made her feel colder. Stepping onto the smooth floor and looking at the disorientating doors sent shivers tingling over her skin. She could identify each door now that she'd been initiated. Love Chamber, Time Chamber.

Death Chamber.

Hermione turned away from that door, entering the Thought Chamber. Even if she hadn't been offered a transfer, she would have requested one after Terry. Her work in the Brain Room, as Ron insisted on calling it, suited her better, anyway: exploring the secrets of thought, trying to pinpoint the origin of magic.

Snape was already there. Of course. Hermione found him next to one of the brain vats, a floating quill and parchment taking notes at his side. No matter how early she arrived, he always got there first—like he somehow used Legilimency from all the way across the country. Or maybe he had simply taken up residence deep in the Department of Mysteries and never left.

"Granger," he said without looking up from the brain he was manipulating with purple beams of magic.

His voice was different now—gravelly, no longer the one she'd heard surrounded by potion fumes. It matched the jagged scar on his throat. That simple, venom-roughened murmur of her name was how he'd greeted her upon revealing he was not, in fact, dead. She hadn't known at the time that they'd end up working together—that he had requested to be placed in the Thought Chamber.

The first week they'd been partners, she'd peppered him with questions only Snape would know, trying to catch him out in case he was a Polyjuiced impostor. It hadn't been until he'd lost his temper and demanded to know why she was still pestering him with question after question when he was no longer her teacher that she'd been convinced.

"Snape," she said. "Anything interesting today?"

"Not particularly. I suppose you do have the dubious pleasure of dealing with Davis's gift. Whether that is _interesting_ remains to be seen."

Mr Davis was the recently deceased husband of a former Unspeakable. Upon his wife's death, he'd taken to writing long, rambling letters to the department. Somehow, Hermione had ended up being the only one to reply to him. Never with anything about his many, many theories on all he thought they studied, but a lack of encouragement hadn't stopped Mr Davis. In his will, he had left the department not only his own brain, but that of his late house-elf. Generous.

"Hmm." Hermione wrinkled her nose. "You don't want it? It's a bit weird for me to do it, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Well, I knew him. Sort of. What would you do?"

"I doubt I will be faced with such a choice. Most people of my acquaintance do not possess enough brain matter to make the study worthwhile."

She snorted. "I should have seen that answer coming."

His only response was a half-formed smirk.

It _was_ a little strange, but Hermione had grown accustomed to strange. May as well crack on. The brains weren't getting any fresher.

Donated brains were delivered in a box that reminded Hermione of a Muggle cooler, with a Chilling Charm instead of ice packs. The preparation process was familiar by now. Rote, easy. Her mind wandered, as it always did as she set one of the empty vats to fill and cast Barrier Charms on both of her hands. Today, instead of her shopping list or her plans for the weekend, her thoughts settled on Terry.

She had discovered where they'd gone wrong—which spell had turned against Terry as it had reached beyond the Veil. She'd memorised every wand movement, every syllable, examining the details in a Pensieve over and over.

She also knew how to bring someone else back. She could target the spell, rather than rolling the dice and selecting someone at random. Even if she could tell anyone outside the Department about her work, she would not share this fact with the Weasleys. After Sirius's dramatic reappearance, Ron had given her a few sidelong glances. He'd never actually asked the question, but she'd been able to read the thought on his face as clearly as if he'd screamed it. _Fred_.

Maybe it had been inevitable that she would turn to Sirius once she found herself single and lonely and still a little lost. He shared the guilt. Upon realising what had happened to Terry, Sirius's first question had been how he could reverse the process and bring Terry back. It wasn't possible. Terry hadn't joined the murmuring dead through that archway. Hermione had worn herself ragged trying to find him, but he had simply ceased to exist. Vanished.

Shivering, Hermione forced her thoughts back to the present. As she had never had the opportunity to examine a house-elf brain, she levitated that one into the vat first. With the brains of wizards and witches, strong tendrils of magic unfurled into the preservative fluid almost instantly. Hermione expected a similar reaction with the elf. A few strands appeared, but they were withered and brown, like a plant left in a dark room.

"Strange," she muttered.

Without the aid of a wand, house-elves could break wards that rendered wizards helpless. They were bursting with magic. Perhaps their magic originated elsewhere in their bodies. Moving closer, she cast a few diagnostic charms on the brain.

There was something there. Not quite a snag, like Terry had felt in the Veil. More of a wall—something holding her back from going deeper. It had a different magical signature from the rest of the brain. Nothing she cast on the barrier had any effect. No false thoughts she shot into the brain could make their way through that wall. Hermione huffed out a breath. Inventing the spells necessary to dismantle it could take weeks.

Was the wall something all elves had in common? None of the Ministry's books on thought even mentioned house-elves in passing. Which was typical of wizards, really. What revelations about the nature of magic might have passed them by because they ignored other species?

"Snape!" she said too loudly, getting overly excited at the possibility of a new discovery waiting on the horizon.

As Snape started at the sound, one of his hands moved close enough to the vat to allow a brain's tendrils to latch onto him. Hermione barely had time to draw a stunned breath before images shimmered through her mind in rapid succession. Her own face, smiling and bright with some newly acquired knowledge. Her bushy head bent over a book, hands reaching up to secure her hair into a messy bun. Her back turned to the viewer as she stood on one leg in front of the vats, scratching the back of her calf with her other foot.

It was not a total surprise. She knew that an accident with the brains could destroy even the most robust of Occlumency shields and cause the affected person to project their thoughts. They had been there before. But these visions of herself through Snape's eyes—glowing and beautiful—she never could have anticipated such a thing.

His next thought was fragile and paper thin. Not a memory, but… a daydream? A hope? The Snape and Hermione in this vision walked together through a dense, tropical forest. Grabbing her around the waist, he pressed his lips to hers.

"Relashio!" Hermione shouted.

The brain released him, slithering back into the vat.

Silence. Oh, gods. Hermione splayed a hand over her breastbone, trying to calm the rapid thud of her heart.

Snape cleared his throat. Instead of the expected defensive lashing out, he said, "I apologise. If anything you saw made you uncomfortable—"

"It didn't." Hermione had to swallow question after question, forcing them down over the lump in her throat. Did he truly see her that way? When had his opinion of her changed?

He gave a stiff nod. "Very well. We will speak no more of it. Now, what was so fucking important that you felt the need to shout?"

* * *

Hermione changed into Muggle clothes and walked home that evening, bundled up against the December cold. The four mile trek between the Ministry and Grimmauld Place gave her ample time to clear her mind, while having the added benefit of delaying her Important Talk with Sirius. She was not looking forward to that. In truth, she wasn't looking forward to seeing him at all. She seldom did these days.

They could not go on like this.

Not far from Grimmauld Place, Hermione veered onto a familiar side street. There hadn't been enough foot traffic to break down the slushy snow; her feet skidded over the pavement. One of the second story balconies on the building at the end of the road was festooned with so many fairy lights that Hermione had to shield her eyes against the glare. George must have helped them decorate again.

Ginny and Cho's flat was a warm, bright studio that was full of books and Quidditch gear and always smelt like flying. Hermione still hated to fly, but there was a scent to it that was all wrapped up in her early memories of the Wizarding World—like broom polish and petrichor.

"Hey," Ginny said, kissing Hermione's cheek as she let her in. "You hungry? We're just heating up some leftovers from Mum."

This was one of the best things about stopping off at Ginny and Cho's on her way home: food from Molly. Hermione gratefully accepted a plate full of chicken, crispy roast potatoes, and broccoli and claimed her favourite chair at their kitchen table. The picture of Marietta on the wall sneered at Hermione. It was from their Hogwarts days; the photo didn't know they'd agreed to be civil during the planning process for Ginny and Cho's wedding.

Well, _civil_ was pushing it. Mostly, Marietta and Hermione avoided each other. Hermione had told her how to undo the Boils Jinx after the war, but her stomach still twisted when she thought of how long she'd left it.

"How are you two?" Hermione asked.

"Not bad." Cho shrugged. "Though I did have another patient today who was only there because of Harry."

After the war, Cho had gone to a Muggle university and became the first grief counsellor in Wizarding Britain. Most of her early patients had been drawn in by the fact that her ex was The Boy Who Lived.

"Haven't had one of those in a while," Ginny said. "You still charged them, right?"

"Of course," Cho said. "Oh, Hermione. I need you to back me up on this. The Order Christmas party. Molly made us the cutest—"

Ginny groaned. "Gods. Not this again. It's not happening."

"But they're so adorable! The little quaffles and bludgers. Your mum put a lot of work into those jumpers."

"Hermione. Tell her we cannot wear matching jumpers anywhere. It's nauseating. It's… It's the sort of thing Percy and Audrey would do."

This did not dissuade Cho. A tap at the window interrupted the debate. When Cho let in a brightly coloured, exotic bird that clutched two scrolls of parchment, an irresistible smile tugged at Hermione's mouth.

She wanted to rip through the seal right away when the bird offered her one of the letters. It had been ages since she'd heard from Luna. Where was she now? Somewhere in the Caribbean?

Years ago, Luna would have been at Ginny and Cho's, waiting for Hermione. Those days were tinted with nostalgia: rose-coloured and always happy. They hadn't been—she knew that. There had been fights. Irreconcilable differences. She and Luna clashed too much to last, but at least Luna had been an adult.

Right. Hermione slipped the letter into her pocket, unread. She needed to go home and have that talk.

This was going to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where I got the idea for public executions in the Death Chamber. Either I made it up when Harry described the Death Chamber as looking like a courtroom, or I read it in a fic. If you know a fic that included that, let me know so I can give credit. Edit: duj has informed me that they used it in two fics, which I likely read during my great SSHG fic binge of a couple of summers ago! Credit for the shenanigans with the brain tendrils goes to Mersheeple, who helped me out when I was whinging about Severus not cooperating.


	2. Chapter 2

_Previously: The four mile trek between the Ministry and Grimmauld Place gave her ample time to clear her mind, while having the added benefit of delaying her Important Talk with Sirius. She was not looking forward to that. In truth, she wasn't looking forward to seeing him at all. She seldom did these days._

_They could not go on like this._

* * *

Kreacher had taken care of it. Hermione could tell, from the way there was not a single missed spot of egg yolk clinging to the plates in the cupboard. Instead of being festooned with cobwebs, every corner of the kitchen sparkled.

Being deliberately incompetent had always been Sirius's favourite tactic. On the rare occasions he actually cleaned up, he did it so poorly that it was almost tempting to say, "Gods, don't bother. I'll do it myself." Almost.

"Kreacher," she said.

He landed next to her with a crack that somehow managed to sound as creaky as his old bones. An elf his age shouldn't always be running around after a man-child, wearing himself thin.

"Yes, Miss?" he said in his croaky voice.

"Thank you for cleaning the kitchen. Is there anything you would like to do for the rest of the evening?"

"Whatever Miss likes."

What Miss would like would be for Kreacher to go live with Harry again, but that was about as likely as Kreacher demanding his own freedom. Sirius would not give up his servant. She had been surprised when he'd wanted Kreacher back after all that had happened, but she shouldn't have been after seeing how averse Sirius was to any sort of housework.

"Why don't you go visit the Potters for a while?" Hermione asked. "I'm sure the kids would like to see you."

His cloudy eyes brightened. "Yes, Miss."

As he popped away, Hermione smiled to herself. They'd come a long way from the days of him grumbling about her polluting the house with her very presence. Back then, she never would have guessed Kreacher would enjoy doting on children and joining in their games.

"Sirius?" she called up the stairs.

No answer. As expected, she found him in his office, constructing a marble run on his desk.

"Hey," he said, giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "How was work?"

"Fine."

"Hmm. I recognise that tone. It definitely doesn't mean _fine._ " He shot her a knowing grin. "Snape giving you trouble?"

Hermione sighed. "No, it's nothing to do with Snape. Work—well, you know I can't talk about details, but it was… interesting." An image of Snape's daydream twirled through her mind—tropical flowers and lingering kisses. She shook her head. "We need to talk."

"That sounds ominous."

There was no easy way to do this. Especially not when he looked at her and she saw one of those glimpses—those there-and-you'll-miss-it flashes of Terry.

"I'm not happy," she said. "I haven't been for a while now. I don't think you are, either. Not really."

He let out a disbelieving gust of laughter. "Are… You're serious? You're breaking up with me?"

The answer splintered in her throat, the shards digging in and making her eyes water. They had been together for two years. So many shared memories—some Patronus-bright and warm. The good moments, like wandering through the city hand-in-hand, talking about nothing and everything. All of the nights she'd sat up telling him all she knew about Terry. Beyond those little flickers that made it seem as if Terry was looking out from Sirius's face, Sirius hadn't retained anything of Terry. No memories, no emotions. He'd wanted to know everything—to honour the boy who had vanished.

And there had been that time she'd let Sirius talk her into sneaking into George's flat early on April Fool's Day to wrap all of George's possessions in clingfilm. George had caught them, of course, but he'd been so delighted by Hermione's attempt at mischief on his birthday that he'd joined in and helped them wrap everything.

When was the last time Sirius and Hermione had shared a moment like that?

"Yes," she finally managed to say. "I think we should end it."

"So, that's it, then? You don't want to try to fix it? You're just… done?"

"I _tried_ to fix it. I asked you so many times to—"

"Tried to fix it, or tried to fix me? Because that's the problem, isn't it? The fact that your attempts to change me haven't worked."

Something tightened in Hermione's chest, invisible bands constricting around her ribcage.

"I never wanted to change you," she said, her voice too shrill now. "I wanted some bloody compromise now and then, instead of always your way, always—"

"Oh, that's rich. Your idea of compromise is only nagging me fifty-six times a day instead of fifty-seven."

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have to nag you if you would actually _do_ something with this second chance you've been given. You're _wasting_ it, and Terry…" She let her voice trail off, but it was too late. The thought she'd kept locked up was already out there, poisoning the air between them. It was the wrong button to press. She knew how much guilt he still carried—how willing he'd been to sacrifice his second chance to bring Terry back.

Sirius's expression darkened. "Yeah. The last two years, in particular, have been a bloody waste."

He would not see her cry in response to that. Later, she could nurse away all of the anger-flung words with a few tears, but not now. Not here.

"I think it's best if I go before either of us say anything else we might regret," she said. "I'll be at Harry's."

To her relief, Sirius's only response to this was to stalk away and slam the door. His marble run collapsed.

It didn't take long to box up her half of their life together. Magic helped, but beyond her books, she didn't own much. A leftover habit from that year on the run: pack light. With her belongings in her beaded bag, she marched on shaky legs out to the street and raised her wand arm. Apparating did not feel like the best idea at that moment.

Stan Shunpike was balding now, though his hat mostly hid it. He greeted her by name, flashing her a smile. Taking a seat near the back and hoping for privacy, Hermione stuffed her hands into her pockets. Something crumpled under her fingers.

Oh. Luna's letter. She'd almost forgot. Pulling it out, Hermione tore through the seal, eager for a distraction.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I think I miss home the most when it rains. The rain here is too warm, and the sound of it is all wrong, somehow. I miss you when it rains, too._

_I am happy here, though. There are so many things to discover—more magical creatures than even I could have ever imagined. I think I have finally found it. My place._

_You'll find your place too, you know. I always saw that in you, back when we still huddled together indoors to hide from the rain. Someday, you are going to find somewhere you want to stay. Maybe it will be close enough for me to visit now and then._

_Thank you so much for the tin of gurdyroot tea. It tastes like home, and it makes the rainiest days easier. I hope you have something to make your rainiest days easier, too._

_Love,_

_Luna_

Slipping the letter back into her pocket, Hermione blinked against the tears that threatened to fall. She would not cry in public. She would not cry in public. She would not end up on the front page of the _Prophet_ , sniffling for all to see.

A teardrop splattered onto the back of her hand. Damn.

* * *

A small hand pinched Hermione's nostrils together, jerking her from sleep.

"Mmf?"

"You were snoring," Lily said.

Grabbing Lily around the waist, Hermione hauled her onto the bed and tickled her sides until she shrieked with laughter.

"You," Hermione said, "are the worst roommate."

"Does that mean you're getting your own flat?"

Hermione snorted. "Are you kicking me out? I just got here."

"Hmm, no. Not yet."

"Well, thank you. That's very generous. And yes, I am getting my own flat. This is just temporary." Hermione brushed Lily's messy blonde hair back from her forehead. "Sorry about the snoring."

"I'll forgive you. This time."

Everyone else in the house was already gathered in the kitchen, eating and chatting and bickering about whose turn it was to do the washing up. Harry's kitchen was big and bright, with a gleaming rack of copper pans over the enormous green Aga and a near-constant stream of people and noise. Going around the table, Hermione kissed each of them on top of the head—Sebastian, Alexandra, Teddy, Harry.

"Sorry to hear about you and Sirius, Aunt Hermione," Alexandra said.

"Thanks, love," Hermione said.

Alexandra looked so grown up that Hermione's heart almost couldn't take it. Fifteen now. How was that possible?

Hermione remembered meeting Alexandra and Sebastian. They'd been Alexandra and Sebastian Jugson back then. Two sullen kids clutching all of their worldly possessions in a pair of black plastic bin bags. For the first few years after the war, they'd been in the Muggle foster care system. Harry had let all of his kids choose whether to keep their birth names or become Potters. When Lily—then Philomena Avery—had joined the family a couple of years later, she'd announced that she would be Lily Potter from that point on, thank you very much. Making sure everyone knew she was related to The Boy Who Lived could only serve her well.

Lily was going to be Sorted into Slytherin when she went to Hogwarts next autumn. There was no doubt about it.

"It's really over?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Hermione said.

He looked disappointed. Of course he did. Lily helpfully drew his attention away from the subject by spilling a whole glass of orange juice down her front.

Watching Harry with his brood always made Hermione smile, no matter how gloomy she felt. Seeing him with the family he'd always wanted was one of her favourite things. Even if he had started to tell Dad jokes.

Sirius had often talked about some far off day when he and Hermione would have kids. Her protests of _I don't want children_ were met with a shrug, an _I know_ , an easy dismissal.

She took a gulp of too-hot coffee, scalding her tongue. They should have ended things a long time ago.

* * *

Snape was already there when Hermione arrived at the Thought Chamber. Of course.

"Granger," he said, same as always.

Tropical heat and long kisses and—Hermione shoved the image from her mind. He hadn't meant for her to see it. She needed to forget about it. The whole thing was none of her business.

"Snape," she said.

Crossing to her station, she got to work. The morning passed in a blur of frustration and muttered curses at her assignment. The elf brain refused to cooperate. She couldn't get past that infernal barrier. With a sweep of her hand, she erased her latest Arithmantic calculations and spell outlines. It wouldn't work. She needed to start over.

"Problems?" Snape asked.

"This elf doesn't like me."

"Did you try to trick it into accepting a knitted hat?"

She laughed. "No, not this time. Ugh." The entire endeavour would be easier if she wasn't completely knackered. Sharing a room with Lily was not something she could do for more than a few days, at most. "Do you happen to know of any reasonably priced flats in London?"

"I believe that is an oxymoron." Scattering a handful of omega 3 supplements into the vats, he raised an eyebrow. "I take it your current accommodation is no longer suitable?"

"Since I broke up with Sirius, no, not really."

She expected some barb about finally coming to her senses. Instead, Snape went quiet for a moment before he said, "There is no reason you must remain in London, provided you have a working Floo connection. You could move somewhere that does not charge a small fortune for something the size of a shoebox. The Outer Hebrides, perhaps. That might put sufficient distance between you and Black."

"Maybe. Just about."

"I know of at least three methods to circumvent the ban on international Floo travel, should more space be required."

"Do you really?"

He let out a raspy chuckle. "No, but look how excited you are at the possibility of breaking the rules."

Levitating the elf brain back into the vat, she moved closer to examine what Snape was working on. "It's just… intellectual curiosity," she said.

" _Intellectual curiosity_." Snape shifted to allow her to see his calculations. "That will make an excellent defence at your eventual trial. Very convincing."

"You'll be a character witness for me, right?"

"I suppose it would be polite to repay the favour."

Oh. He'd never before brought up her impassioned speech at his trial in absentia. She always had loved a cause.

"Additionally," Snape said, "I have a vested interest in seeing you remain in this department."

"You do?"

"I am accustomed to you. Breaking in a new partner would be a hassle."

"Is that why you asked to work in the Thought Chamber?" she asked, giving his arm a nudge. "Because I'm less of a pain than others might be?"

He smirked. "No."

With Snape standing so close, Hermione found herself staring at his thin lips. What would it be like to kiss him? Not in some impossibly golden tropical fantasy, but in ordinary life. A frantic snog in the break room, moving apart and acting innocent when the doorknob turned.

Gods. She had broken up with her boyfriend less than a day before. What was wrong with her? And why didn't she feel more guilty about her wandering imagination?

"Granger?" Snape said.

Hermione jolted. "Sorry. Miles away."

"Do you think you will finish with your elf before we're off for Christmas, or should we start preparing the Chamber?"

The Chamber was an iron cupboard that was locked up with more protective charms than Gringotts and Azkaban combined. The Unspeakables used it for brain storage when they went on holiday. The brains couldn't be left to their own devices for more than a couple of nights. _Things_ tended to happen.

"Hmm. If it keeps up like this, I'll be lucky to finish with him before next Christmas, to be honest." Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she returned his notes. "Are you going to the Order Christmas party this year?"

"That depends. Will the Order be in attendance? If so, then no."

She snorted. "I'll let you off of character witness duty if you come along and act as my buffer."

Snape hadn't given her a look _that_ stern since she'd been his student. Hermione grinned.

"It _would_ irritate Black no end," he said, the harsh line of his frown softening. "I will consider it."

* * *

A few weeks later, Hermione paused next to a shop window and checked her reflection one last time, opening her coat to get the full effect. The new dress had been a mistake. Everyone would think she was trying too hard, and besides, it was an unnecessary expense when she'd just shelled out for a deposit on a flat (in Manchester, not London).

It did look bloody good, though. And she'd never owned a little black dress before. Wasn't that supposed to be a wardrobe staple? Tucking her wild hair behind her ears, she continued on her way to Grimmauld Place, heels clacking on the pavement. It would be the first time since the breakup that she'd set foot in that house.

Apart from the blaring Christmas music, the first sound to greet Hermione upon opening the door was an enthusiastic _phwoar_ from Ginny. Not a bad start.

"You look fantastic," Ginny said, hugging her tight before making her spin around.

"Thanks," Hermione said, blushing.

Ginny and Cho were wearing the matching jumpers. Hermione hid her grin with the drink Harry gave her.

"You really do look great," he said. "Now, Hermione, I need you to help me out here. You've always been the voice of reason."

Cho groaned. "Here we go."

"What?" Hermione asked. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," Cho said. "Harry is just trying to talk us into naming our firstborn after him."

"I mean, honestly, I sort of got you together, didn't I?" Harry asked with a lopsided smile. "You bonded over how hopeless I am at relationships."

"Harry," Ginny said, placing a hand on his arm, "you know we love you, but I promise you were the last thing on our minds when we got together."

"Firstborn?" Hermione asked. She'd never heard either of them talk about kids before.

"Maybe soon, yeah," Cho said.

At the same time, Ginny said, "Do _not_ tell my mum."

"Just so you know," Harry said after their laughter died down, "Sirius, err, brought a date."

The only reaction Hermione could summon up to this news was a weak little wave of exasperation. Even Trelawney could have predicted it.

"All right," she said. "Thanks for the warning."

As she circulated, catching up and giving hugs, a commotion from the direction of the basement kitchen grabbed her attention. Descending the stairs, she caught a familiar voice—rough and deep.

"Of all the people in the Wizarding World to be offered a second chance, you must be the least deserving."

Snape had actually come? A breath caught in Hermione's throat. She crept closer.

Sirius scoffed. "You still haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"

"It is an Order Christmas party. I am a member of the Order, am I not?"

"That's debatable. Who even invited you, Snivellus? I know Harry gave up last year."

Snivellus. Speaking of things anyone could have predicted. For the love of Circe. _Grow up, Sirius._

Hermione entered the kitchen in time to see Snape's mouth curve up into an unpleasant smile, like he savoured Sirius's disdain the way Hermione would savour chocolate cake.

"Granger asked me," he said.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored Muggle suit instead of his customary black robes. The tie had either been discarded or never existed; the collar of the crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, framing the scars that revealed just how far he had gone for the Order. Something about it made Hermione want to stare. The party was always Muggle attire (Arthur's idea), but she hadn't expected Snape to follow the rules.

Both men turned to her in unison. Snape's scornful smile fell away, replaced by an intense gaze that travelled down the length of her body and back up again.

Thank Merlin she'd bought the dress.

"Yeah," she said. "I asked him."

She didn't say anything else. Snape could hold his own, and the arrival of Sirius's Lavender lookalike date with two glasses of Firewhisky silenced whatever argument had been brewing behind Sirius's sneer.

Giving Sirius a mocking bow, Snape made his exit. As he squeezed past Hermione, she caught the scent of something dark and woodsy and hauntingly familiar.

"Granger," he said, voice pitched low enough for only her to hear.

"Snape." As his quiet footsteps faded away up the stairs, she turned to Sirius. He expected a lecture, she knew, but all she gave him was, "Happy Christmas."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Happy Christmas."

* * *

An hour later, needing a break from the jolly crowd, Hermione sneaked upstairs and leant against Sirius's office door. The dress had a low back, and the wood was pleasantly cool against her skin. The sounds of the party turned muffled this far away: wordless music and an unintelligible roar of conversation. Someone else padded up the stairs—someone with dark hair and a well fitting Muggle suit, who knew to skip the creaky third step. Snape.

"Hi," she said with a breathy laugh. "Sorry, did I steal your hiding place? We can hide together, if you like."

Giving her an almost-smile, he propped himself against the wall next to her. Their elbows brushed.

"I was surprised you actually came," she said.

"As was I."

In the semidarkness of the landing, her thoughts started skipping down dangerous paths. What _would_ it be like to kiss him?

"You look nice, by the way," she said before she could think better of it. "I've never seen you in anything but your usual robes."

Seconds ticked by in silence. She thought he was going to ignore the compliment—sweep it under the rug as if it had never been spoken. It wasn't until she drew in a deep breath in preparation to start rambling anxiously about something else—what, she had not quite decided—that he spoke.

"You look… enchanting."

Enchanting. Each low, gravelly syllable felt charged with something beautiful and tempting that she wanted to wrap around herself. She shifted closer. He didn't move away.

That vision of his daydream came back to her, but this time she let it go further. Let herself imagine those sweet kisses turning to her pushing him up against a jacaranda tree, rough and needy.

What would it be like?

"What would you say if I asked you to kiss me?" she whispered.

His elbow pressed more firmly against hers. "You know precisely what I would say."

They were both single. And she had spent weeks focusing on her work, trying to pretend she wasn't curious. Angling her body towards him, she said it.

"Kiss me."


	3. Chapter 3

_Previously: They were both single. And she had spent weeks focusing on her work, trying to pretend she wasn't curious. Angling her body towards him, she said it._

" _Kiss me."_

* * *

The instant she spoke the words, Hermione remembered where she was. Anyone could see them. Sirius or Molly or Minerva could wander up the stairs at any moment. Her request for a kiss could have carried to other ears, but she found that she didn't care. She still wanted to know what it was like.

And why should she care? She had been replaced. That part of her that had jinxed Marietta and left Umbridge to the centaurs _wanted_ Sirius to see her with someone else. With _Snape_.

She half expected Snape to refuse—to say there was only so far he was willing to go to annoy Sirius. Instead, he placed a curled finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up. He bent towards her slowly, like he could spend the whole evening with that heart-stopping anticipation—that _almost there—_ and all thoughts of where they were and who might see them vanished.

Hermione had never been one for putting off the inevitable. And it was inevitable, wasn't it? Steadying herself on his shoulders, she stretched up and touched her lips to his.

Even though she was the one to initiate it, it was still somehow a surprise. The softness of his lips, the way his mouth opened to her without hesitation, the warmth of his hands cradling her face—all of it was unexpected. Unfamiliar. How could that acerbic tongue of his brush against hers so sweetly?

Snape moved closer, eliminating all of those needless, wasteful centimetres between their bodies. The music and voices from downstairs faded away, replaced by his breaths and the rapid drumbeat of his heart beneath the palm she moved down to his chest.

The way Snape kissed was exactly like him: precise, deliberate. She couldn't say when it turned more bruising—teeth nipping, hips pushing together. A quiet groan from him brought a familiar twist of tension low in her abdomen. And his hands—gods, he had amazing hands. She'd always been fascinated by them, watching his long, elegant fingers as he worked. Those hands started wandering over her body—cupping a breast, stroking the skin just beneath the hem of her skirt, pulling her more tightly against him—and that rising tension became an ache.

They needed to be alone. She didn't want any interruptions to force this to an end. Fumbling for the doorknob, she tugged him after her into the office.

Casting his gaze around the moonlit room, he raised an eyebrow. That was all the reaction she allowed before shoving him up against the door and kissing him again.

_Colloportus_ , she thought, passing her fingers over the door, feeling the locking charm click into place. With his mouth on hers, it was as if his magic tingled through her as well—a powerful rush of light and shadow. The air around them turned unnaturally still and quiet, Snape's nonverbal Silencing Charm sliding into place.

She kissed over the raised scars on his throat, the tendon between his neck and shoulder. Those amazing hands of his clasped her hips, sliding around to her arse. Unfastening the buttons of his shirt, revealing pale skin that was crisscrossed with a few older scars, she pulled back to look into his dark eyes.

_Enchanting_.

The memory of that word made something unfamiliar and bright course through her. In vain, she tried to smother the feeling. What she wanted to do was carry that brightness around with her, but it was too sweet of a sentiment to have a place here. Tropical fantasies aside, she couldn't expect anything from him once they left this room. They weren't even friends.

"Is this why you invited me to this party?" he asked. One of his hands slipped up her thigh, fingers so close, so close, but not quite. He lingered there long enough to make her start to squirm. "Am I part of your revenge?"

"No," she fired back, guilty heat flooding into her face for her fleeting thoughts on the landing. "Am I part of yours?"

He chuckled. "If you were, I wouldn't have cast a Silencing Charm. If this was about revenge," he paused for another kiss, speaking his next words against her lips, "I would let them hear you."

" _Just_ me?"

They would see about that. By way of a reply, Snape moved his hand higher, his fingertips brushing her centre. Hermione bit her lip against a gasp.

"May I?" he whispered.

"Yes." She breathed the word in a rush, almost turning it into a plea.

A plea he answered by pushing her knickers aside and touching her, featherlight strokes building to slow, firm circles that made the tension in her belly tighten and warm. And, honestly, thank Merlin for that Silencing Charm. Dragging her lips over his neck, Hermione moaned.

"As I said," he murmured, his voice rumbling through her. "Enchanting."

Gods. That was not playing fair. Swallowing that bright feeling again, Hermione studied his inscrutable expression. He seemed so in control of everything—himself, her. What would it be like to see him come undone? To make him lose control?

Slowly, she traced the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers, grinning when she was rewarded with an eager twitch beneath her palm and a hitch in his breath. Feeling powerful and brave, she kissed her way down his chest and stomach and sank to her knees. The loss of his fingers moving between her legs was almost worth the stunned look on his face. Almost.

"May I?" she asked.

His Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes."

Inching the zip down, she shoved his trousers and boxers out of her way. There was a moment in which she felt as if she was floating through the hazy surreality of a dream. Surely Severus Snape could not be standing there, half-naked and so beautifully hard because of _her_. But the floor felt cold and solid beneath her knees—an anchor to reality. This was happening. Rocking forward, she licked a stripe up the underside of Snape's cock before taking him into her mouth.

"Fuck," he said. "Granger."

Hermione replaced her mouth with her hand, smiling up at him as she said, "I think, given the circumstances, you can probably call me Hermione."

He laughed. "I will call you whatever you like, witch."

What she liked was the way his voice curled around the word _witch._ She stroked him faster, delighting in the way he shuddered and tilted his head back. Enchanting. When she moved her mouth over him again, Snape made a noise she hadn't known he could make—soft and almost awed. A little _oh_ that made her press her thighs together and moan around him.

Making him lose control was both easier and more intoxicating than she'd anticipated. She'd never known it could be like this. Like she wasn't _giving_ something to a partner, but taking it. Claiming it.

She lost herself in the timbre of his voice, in every whispered curse, in the slick slide of her mouth on his cock. His legs shook as he lightly tugged her hair and warned her that he was close.

When he came, it was with a whispered moan of, "Hermione."

Leaning heavily against the door, he pulled up his trousers and sighed—the closest to contented she'd ever heard him sound. As soon as Hermione was on her feet again, he caught her around the waist.

"That," he said, "is not what I imagined when we entered this room. Not that I'm complaining, mind."

"What did you imagine?"

Smirking, Snape pulled her body flush against his. "Shall I show you?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

A sizzle of his magic cascaded towards the walls, cloaking the room in more wards. It was like his voice, that magic. Rich and deep and tempting. The aftermath of the spell still crackled around them as he unzipped her dress and let it pool on the floor. Hermione bit her lip. The flames that had started building when he'd kissed her had become an inferno. She would combust if he didn't touch her again.

Snape did not seem inclined to hurry. He moved as if this really was a dream—as if they were both wading through treacle. A brush of his fingertips against her chest was the closest to relief she got as he reached around her back. Her bra put up a fight, prompting a shared laugh as he struggled to unfasten it. She had to kiss his triumphant smirk when he succeeded. There was no other option, really.

"I imagined this," he said, laughter fading, stepping back to look at her like he never wanted to stop. Like he could spend the rest of the night memorising her every valley and curve.

The room was dungeon cold, goosebumps prickling her bare skin, but that stare warmed her. There was something about sneaking around like this that made her feel like she'd been asleep for years, and now she was finally waking up. Alive again.

A surprised giggle escaped her as he lifted her onto the absurdly enormous desk. The surface was empty of marble runs now; only a few quills fluttered to the floor.

"And this," Snape said.

It was the best kind of agony, the way he devoted so much time to kissing her neck, exploring her breasts. Working his fingers between her thighs, he licked and sucked one nipple until the other started to feel neglected, switching back and forth between them. It was enough to drive her mad. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours; she lost all sense of anything but the wet heat of his mouth and the slow circling of his fingers.

"Lie back," he said.

Blinking, Hermione obeyed. The sound of her heels clattering to the floor was unnaturally loud in the magically still room. Sliding her knickers down her legs, he dragged his lips over her inner thigh. Hermione bit back the _please_ that tried to escape. His gaze flicked up to hers as if he'd heard it anyway. So bloody smug. Breath warm and mouth tantalisingly close, he passed over to the other thigh. More _almost there_.

Hermione groaned. "You aren't supposed to keep teasing me like that."

The vibration of his chuckle made her shiver. "Am I not? I was unaware there was an instruction manual. My apologies for not doing the required reading."

"We're getting off at a Christmas pa-arty," she said, the last word cut in two by an unexpected sweep of his tongue. "You are supposed to make me come as quickly as possible so we can get back to the mince pies before anyone suspects."

"Hmm. Is that so? Is that what you want, Hermione? A brief, furtive fuck?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed his face between her legs. _Finally_. She speared her fingers through his hair. This—this was exactly what she wanted. This was not anything like teasing. It was all-consuming—pleasure as sharp and severe as him. She didn't care about anything else as long as he didn't stop. Back arching off of the desk, she gasped as he crooked a finger inside her.

"Severus," she said without meaning to.

He made a pleased noise, and, gods, it was almost too much. His name was torn from her again and again as her release splintered through her.

"And that," he whispered, answering her question for a third time, kissing her hip as she continued to tremble.

Hermione laughed. "You have an excellent imagination."

His lips turned up against her skin. "Indeed."

When he stood, she summoned enough energy to prop herself up on her elbows and look at him. He was beautifully dishevelled: trousers still unfastened, shirt open, jacket lost somewhere. Getting back to the mince pies would be the sensible thing. They'd already taken too long, but she wanted more.

What would _that_ be like?

"Do you want to get out of here?" she asked.

He tilted his head to one side. "Do you have a destination in mind?"

"Mine? Yours? Somewhere with surfaces more comfortable than this desk."

He snorted. "It _is_ a monstrosity." Patting her thigh, he added, "Get your things. I will need to take you Side-Along."

She didn't bother to get dressed. Gathering up her clothes and shoes, she lowered the wards, unlocked the door, and took his arm. One breath-stealing squeeze later, they landed in a dim room that was lined with so many bookshelves, Hermione's mouth went a bit dry. As far as surfaces went, it was a vast improvement upon the office: a bed with a neat grey duvet was shoved up against the only expanse of wall that wasn't taken up with book storage.

Hermione set her bundle on a chair in the corner. It took every bit of her Gryffindor bravery to say, "What would you say if I asked you to fuck me?"

Talking like that wasn't something she usually did, but the glint in his eyes was worth it.

"You know precisely what I would say."

She didn't get the chance to finish the repetition of their dance in Grimmauld Place. He kissed her like it was the first time—like he would drown if he didn't. Hermione tugged at his clothes, tumbling with him to the bed, laughing when she got his trousers stuck on his shoes.

"It is something of a relief to know we're both inept," he said.

"Not inept. Eager." She kissed the corner of his mouth. " _Inept_ is not a word I would use for anything you've done so far."

"Yes. Likewise."

With him finally naked, she wrapped her fingers around his half-hard cock, stroking up and down, sighing happily as it thickened in her hand.

"One moment," he said, reaching for his pile of clothes and extracting his wand.

He muttered the male version of the Contraceptive Charm on himself. Hermione didn't mean to make comparisons to past loves, but she couldn't help it. Even though she hadn't stopped taking the potion, it was a pleasant change to not have protection treated as her sole responsibility.

Reclining on top of the duvet, she opened her arms to him. He settled his body on top of hers, and all she could think were words like _now_ and _yes_. She was still sensitive as he pushed inside her, filling her. And then she knew: this was what it was like. Slow and deep and as precise as his kisses. There was a spot where his waist nipped in just a bit that was made for her hands. Made for her to grip as his thrusts sped up, as he fucked her so hard the bed creaked.

She didn't think she could come again, but he proved her wrong, slipping a hand between their bodies and touching her. The ripples of pleasure were almost sweet—almost enchanting. She wanted to keep feeling all of it: his breath on her neck as he groaned her name, the muscles of his back tensing beneath her fingers, the unsteady jerking of his hips against hers as he followed her over the edge.

After, Snape hovered over her, both of them panting, nose to nose. Tucking his hair behind his ear, she offered him a tentative smile.

"How many books do you own?" she asked.

He laughed—loud and genuine. "I am astonished it took you so long to ask."

"I was rather preoccupied."

"Hmm. Quite." Snape rolled off of her. "I'm not sure how many there are, exactly."

Silence drifted in, broken only by their still-quick breaths. The words _I could stay_ hovered on her tongue, but for some reason, they refused to come out. Why the idea of saying it made her feel more vulnerable than asking him to kiss her and fuck her, she didn't know.

"I suppose," she said instead, "I should get back to Grimmauld Place before anyone decides to send out a search party."

He gave her a tight nod. "Very well."

Hermione did her best to seem nonchalant as they got dressed, smoothed their hair, wiped a smear of lipstick from his jaw. Easygoing. As if she did this whenever she pleased, and it wasn't the first time she'd had something casual.

"I'll see you after the New Year," he said.

Hermione nodded. "See you."

Before she drew her wand to Apparate away, he gave her an odd look and kissed her again. Gentle pecks that somehow felt more intimate than everything they'd just done.

She didn't know what to do with that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early as I'll be busy tomorrow. Hope you are all well. xx

_Previously: Before she drew her wand to Apparate away, he gave her an odd look and kissed her again. Gentle pecks that somehow felt more intimate than everything they'd just done._

_She didn't know what to do with that._

* * *

Hermione kept busy for the rest of the break. She read everything the magical section of the British Library had on house-elves (precious little), visited the Potter and Chang-Weasley households often, made a token trip to the Burrow, and took her annual maudlin walk past her childhood home. Her parents were safe and sound in Australia, happy in their new life, from what she could tell. Years of working in the Thought Chamber hadn't rendered her any more capable of fixing the damage she'd done to them.

On her first day back in the Thought Chamber, Snape was there before her, as per usual, even though she arrived obscenely early (for reasons she refused to examine).

"Granger," he said, same as always.

"Snape."

It felt odd to go back to that old name after she'd moaned _Severus_. Formal and unnatural. She tried not to think about what he looked like naked—how he'd felt inside her.

Crossing the room to her station, she discovered that Snape had already retrieved her elf brain from the Chamber and placed it in one of the vats.

"How was the rest of your break?" she asked.

"Adequate," he said. "Though not nearly as enjoyable."

Their gazes met. And—yes. That was definitely a smirk. All right. Not going to ignore it entirely, then.

Hermione dived into her research notes. Elves were born already in service to their mother's family, but there were no records of when such a relationship began. It had simply always been so in the Wizarding World. Or so the books claimed.

Her latest idea for breaking through the barrier in the elf's brain had been inspired by a magical puzzle that Ginny and Cho had given her for Christmas. It required using multiple unlocking charms in quick succession in order to solve it. She reckoned she could use a similar method on the elf—a barrage of all of the Charms that had almost worked.

Her first attempt was too slow. She could feel the barrier starting to shift, but before she could cast the next charm, it slammed shut again. She needed to be fast, like it was a duel. Rolling up the sleeves of her robes, she tried again. And again.

The third time proved lucky. As the barrier crumbled, green and violet coloured tendrils of magic spread out from the brain into the vat. Hermione wanted to whoop in celebration, but as Snape was performing a rather delicate operation with his own brain, she settled for bouncing on the spot.

Filled with the thrill of learning something new, she delved into the elf's thought patterns, unencumbered. With the wall gone, there was very little difference between this brain and that of a wizard or witch. It was as if that barrier had been trapping the elf's mind in a cage. Now, the false thoughts she implanted in the brain moved around freely. Like any other brain she'd seen.

Hermione's wand hand trembled. Did this mean what she thought it meant? The girl she'd once been—the one who had made badges and stayed up late knitting hats and tried to debate the elves into wanting freedom—waved her hand in the air, forever eager to answer a question.

Was this what had made Dobby different? Some weakening of this barrier? It hadn't been entirely removed; he had still punished himself. More hand waving from her younger self. The barrier had a different magical signature from the rest of the brain. Like it had been placed there.

If she removed the barrier on a living elf…

Gods.

"Snape?" she said once he had finished his task. "Would you mind taking a look at this?"

He was quiet as he read through her notes and examined the brain. Nothing in his demeanour revealed that he saw her breakthrough—no gasps, no curses. Nothing. Hermione didn't dare say a word about it. If she made her suspicions known to the Department, she would be removed from the case. Relocated to another area of study within the Department, most likely. Given her history of campaigning for house-elf freedom, she would be accused of partiality and replaced with someone else.

She was partial, of course. So damn partial she wanted to don a S.P.E.W. badge and go marching out of the building right that instant.

"Interesting," Snape said at last. Giving the brain the same look of utter impatience he used to direct at Harry and Neville, he added, "Literature about elves is sorely lacking, but I have a few volumes in my collection. Would you like to see them?"

Away from the Department, they could discuss her theories off the record.

"I'd love to."

* * *

"I counted them," Snape said as Hermione gaped at overflowing bookcases in his lounge. "4601 in total."

Hermione blinked. Goodness.

"I have never been more aroused," she said in a deadpan voice that sounded rather like it had been inspired by him.

He barked out a laugh. Grinning, Hermione ran her fingers along the lovely spines of several leather-bound books. There was a strange sort of magic in making him laugh. Like untangling a particularly stubborn Charm.

"So," she said. "Elves. Did you reach the same conclusion as me?"

"That some wizard centuries ago cast a spell to make elves believe they enjoy serving? Yes. The different magical signature suggests as much. Do you need a moment to bask in the overwhelming vindication?"

"Possibly."

He waved a hand. "Get on with it, then."

She couldn't summon the energy. What was the point? Whether her younger self had been right or not, it didn't change anything for the elves. And either way, she'd gone about it all wrong, treating the elves as if she knew better than they did regarding what they wanted.

She thought of Dobby, a lump forming in her throat. _Here lies Dobby, a free elf_. She wished he was still alive, so he could see the others being set free. So he could see them becoming fully themselves. Because that was where this was ultimately headed, wasn't it?

Giving herself an internal shake, she turned back to the bookcases. "Do you actually have any books on elves?"

"Yes," Snape said, "but I doubt it's anything you haven't already found in your research."

They stood close as she leafed through the same frustrating, incomplete material she'd been reading for weeks. As she reached the end of Snape's collection with a disgruntled sigh, a familiar, gilt-embossed title caught her attention several rows up. There was a silhouette of Hogwarts on the spine. Later editions had changed to the crest.

"Oh," she breathed, reaching up on tiptoes to pull the book from the shelf. "Is this—it is. You have a first edition of _Hogwarts, A History_?"

"I do."

Hermione opened the cover reverently. He leant over her shoulder to see, the heat of his body warming her. So close. The words on the page went hazy as her mind provided a slideshow of everything he'd done to her, everything they'd done together. Upstairs, in this very house, she had let him into her body, let him touch her.

Looking up, she caught his gaze. There was something smouldering in his eyes that encouraged her to touch her lips to his. He met her kiss without hesitation, like they had been doing this for ages. Like they already knew the steps.

How had she ever thought they could carry on without doing this again? The book got caught between their bodies, pages rustling. Pulling back, Hermione took a moment to place it gently back on the shelf. He chuckled.

They had hours stretching out in front of them, but there was no teasing this time. It was all frantic kisses against the bookshelves and clothing torn off as they climbed the stairs. They tumbled to his bed, her straddling his hips and sinking down on him.

"Do you know," he said, hands reaching up to cup her breasts, "how often I have thought of this?"

"Can't be half as often as I have."

She watched his face as she moved over him—the way he bit his lower lip, the way he stared at where they were joined, the way his mouth fell open when she came. And there was that word again: _enchanting._

After, Hermione summoned up enough bravery to burrow beneath the duvet instead of making another hasty exit. Snape joined her without comment. They lay so close that if they were touching, it would probably count as snuggling.

"You're different than I remembered," she whispered.

He arched an eyebrow. "My technique could not have changed that much in the space of a week and a half."

"No, not that." A smile stole onto her face, irresistible and warm. "I meant your personality. I noticed it when we first got reacquainted. You're… calmer, I suppose."

"Not being forced to teach Potter will do that."

"Hmm. And there was also the double life."

His lips twitched at the corners. "Attempting to both educate Potter and keep him alive was the more arduous task."

"What made you come back?" she asked. She'd wondered about it before—many times—but had never included it among the many, many questions she'd fired at him upon his return to the Wizarding World. "Everyone thought you were dead. You could have spent your days in peace on a tropical island somewhere."

His throat worked, scars shifting as he swallowed. Rolling onto his side, he looked directly into her eyes as he said, "I wished to work with you."

Hermione snorted. "Liar."

"I have never lied to you." Pausing, he frowned. "Perhaps I should amend that statement. I have not lied to you since the war ended."

She swatted him with a pillow.

"Had I not been exonerated," he said, "I would have indeed spent my days in peace on a tropical island. The Dominican Republic has no extradition treaty with Britain."

Well. That was one option available to her, she supposed.

"You will be expected to give a progress update soon," he said after a few moments of quiet.

She knew. Gods, she needed more time. She needed to be sure her method would work on a live elf. And then what?

"I wonder if I could design a potion that had the same effect as the spells I used," she said. "Then they wouldn't need me to skulk around the British countryside, slipping into manors and casting charms on elves one by one."

"Whatever method you choose, it will likely be traced back to you. We can cover your tracks as much as possible, but the Department already knows you are working with an elf brain."

_We_. Such a little word to make her chest feel so light.

They didn't say what they both knew—that by using knowledge she'd gained as an Unspeakable for unauthorised purposes, she would be breaking the law. Minimum sentence of 10 years, but she would not get the minimum. Someone as high profile as Hermione Granger, dealing in something as deeply rooted in Pureblood culture as this? They would want to make an example of her. Their world hadn't experienced the dramatic cultural shift she had hoped for since the end of the war. The old prejudices continued to run deep.

"You'll still be my character witness, right?" she asked.

"As I said before, it would be only polite to repay the favour."

She sighed. "What do you think I should do?"

"It is not my opinion that matters."

"No, but I would like your input, all the same."

His fingertips trailed up and down her arm. After a moment of consideration, he said, "I cannot imagine you doing anything but what is right."

There was that bright feeling again. This time, Hermione held tight to it.

Was there some way she could help the elves and keep her life as it was? She couldn't see a way. If it came down to it, she would choose them. Closing her eyes, she listened to Snape's slow, rhythmic breathing.

She didn't remember falling asleep, but she must have. The room was dark. Intimate. Like the first time she'd been there. Snape's arms were around her, but it wasn't disorientating, the way waking up with a new partner sometimes was. There was no moment in which her half-awake brain had to run through the recent developments and remind herself why she wasn't alone. It felt right. Safe.

The kisses that Snape pressed to the back of her neck made her wriggle back against him. A whispered request tickled the spot behind her ear. She answered by pushing against him more firmly and lifting her leg to allow him to slide into her from behind. It was slow and sleepy: a gently building fire that felt like it could go on and on.

"Hermione," he said, and she wondered if she would ever be Hermione to him when they weren't fucking.

* * *

She almost didn't notice them.

On her way through the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione's thoughts bounced between the elves and what she was going to say when she got to Harry's place. As she neared the door to Muggle London, she caught the distinctive buzz of a Muffliato. Snape and Sirius sat across from each other at a table. That they were together in public was bizarre enough; that they did not appear ready to draw wands or trade blows was nothing short of astonishing. Sirius's face was the only one she could see, and he didn't look angry. He looked… focused. Intense.

Hermione couldn't say why, but before Sirius could notice her, she ducked into an empty booth and hid her face behind a menu. There wasn't much more for her to see. With a flick of Snape's wrist, the Muffliato faded. Sirius marched towards the exit without a word. After a moment to get her bearings, Hermione slid into his place. If Snape was surprised by her sudden appearance, he didn't show it.

"What was _that_ about?" she asked.

Snape shrugged one shoulder. "Black saw an opportunity and took it. As per usual. I did not wish whatever he had to say to be overheard by others."

Hermione frowned. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. Would you like a drink?"

The way his foot slid against hers under the table was tempting, but Hermione shook her head. She'd told Harry she would be there soon.

* * *

A litany of curses came from beneath the half-assembled desk. Lily had insisted that she was going to use her new desk for Potions experiments when she started at Hogwarts. None of Hermione's warnings about doing magic outside of school could sway her. Lily claimed that was only a problem if one got caught. If the finished product ended up as lopsided as the desk currently was, her attempts at illicit brewing would be over before they began. The cauldron wouldn't even stay in place. Harry had many talents, but assembling flat-pack furniture was not among them.

Thinking about a different desk, Hermione felt her face heat.

"Harry," she said.

"Ow! Yeah?"

"If I had to go into exile, you and the kids would visit me, right?"

"Of course. Could you hand me the thing? No, the other thing." After a beat, his messy hair appeared from beneath the desk. "Wait. That wasn't a rhetorical question, was it?"

"Not so much, no."

"Right. Well. I, err… This seems like a conversation that requires tea."

Such a dad. Hermione half expected a horrible pun as they got settled in his kitchen and he set a chipped Sports Direct mug in front of her. Instead, he gave her the same look she'd seen him give his kids when he knew they were headed for trouble.

"Now," he said, "who or what is going to cause you to go into exile?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh. Work stuff, then."

Thank Merlin Harry had changed his mind about becoming an Auror. He was far more suited to being the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, anyway.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Hermione swallowed. "I have to make a choice—only it's not really any sort of choice at all. There's only one option that will let me live with myself."

"Hmm. Well, shite."

They sat there in silence for a few moments. Warming her hands on the mug, Hermione took a sip of tea that was just on the right side of scalding. Harry always made the best tea.

"Whatever it is," he said, patting her arm, "I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

She laughed. "That's what Snape said."

"There you go, then. If Snape and I agree on something, it must be right. And I'm guessing he knows more about the situation than I do."

"He does, yeah."

Harry stared into his mug of too-milky, too-sweet tea as if it had the answers. He still took three sugars. A habit he'd started because Petunia had never let him have anything but black tea made from a used teabag. The way he pushed his glasses up his nose was so familiar, it made Hermione's heart hurt.

She was going to miss seeing his kids grow up.

"Nothing will keep us from seeing you," Harry said. "You know that."

She did. It would be the same if their positions were reversed.

"Did you know that the Dominican Republic has no extradition treaty with Britain?" she asked.

Harry did that thing where he tried to raise one eyebrow, but both shot up. "That's… interesting. You will be careful, right?"

"Yeah. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Back at home, she wrote a cryptic letter to Luna, cleaned her already tidy flat, and made copious notes on a potion for the elves. Kreacher was her best option, she decided. None of the Hogwarts elves trusted her. Any elves in the service of other families were complete nonstarters. Kreacher would allow her to cast diagnostic charms on him. She needed to work out whether he carried the same foreign magical signature as Mr Davis's elf. It was too late now, though. If she showed up at her ex's house at this hour, Sirius would think she was after something she absolutely did not want.

"Kreacher," she said, just in case.

Nothing. He was no longer listening for her.

Unable to settle, she went on a walk. The night was cold and cloudless, all of the stars faded by the city lights. On impulse, she ducked into an alley, spun on the spot, and Apparated to a different alley about thirty miles to the west. One strewn with broken glass and reeking of fox. With quick steps, she moved away from the distant noise of raucous youths and towards Spinners End. Towards Snape's house.

He answered the door almost instantly, as if he'd been expecting her.

"Granger," he said.

"Snape." She tried on a smile. "Can I come in?"

Without another word, he drew her into his arms and pressed his mouth to hers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a couple of tags, so please take note before you read this chapter. I wasn't sure how to warn for what happens, and that was the best suggestion I got. If you think it might be triggering for you and need to know more before reading, feel free to send me an ask on tumblr (turtlewexlerwrites).

_Previously: On her way through the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione's thoughts bounced between the elves and what she was going to say when she got to Harry's place. As she neared the door to Muggle London, she caught the distinctive buzz of a Muffliato. Snape and Sirius sat across from each other at a table. That they were together in public was bizarre enough; that they did not appear ready to draw wands or trade blows was nothing short of astonishing. Sirius's face was the only one she could see, and he didn't look angry. He looked… focused. Intense._

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_I have a confession. Ronald told me about you and Sirius before I received your letter. I think perhaps he should have waited for you to tell me yourself, but then he wouldn't be Ronald, would he? I'm sorry if you're sad about the breakup. Even when we know it's the right thing to do, this sort of thing can be very difficult. Your energy always clashed quite alarmingly with Sirius's, so I do think it was the right thing, if that's any comfort._

_I do not think you will reconcile with him, but if you do, please forget I said that thing about your energies, so it's not too awkward when I see you with him again. Though I don't suppose he would want to see me. He never seemed to like me much._

_Have you planned any holidays yet this year? I think you would like it here. Cloud forests, salt lakes, savannah, mountains, pine forest—I could spend my whole life exploring it. I have enclosed sketches of some of the magical creatures I've found. I considered naming one after you (you will know which one; it has very bushy hair), as it appears to be a new discovery, but I decided to ask first, in case you didn't take it as a compliment._

_If you ever want to use my name for any strange new things in the Department of Mysteries, I promise I will take it as a compliment. Or I would, if you were allowed to tell me about it._

_I'm sorry you are facing a difficult situation at work. Do you remember when you first started working there? You used to come home bursting to tell me everything you had learnt, and because you were forbidden to do so, I would try to guess. I still wonder if any of my guesses were ever correct. I had hoped you would get that back someday, after the sadness of Terry. I wonder if maybe the Department is not right for you. If you like working with Snape, maybe you could do something else together._

_Anyway, do think about visiting, okay? I hope the coming year is better than the last._

_Love,_

_Luna_

Laughing, Hermione set Luna's letter aside and admired the drawing of a creature that resembled a canary wearing a curly toupee.

At least Luna would be nearby if Hermione did have to flee to the Dominican Republic. Having a friend would lessen the sting of leaving everything behind. She thought of that fantasy of Snape's—kissing in a tropical forest—and gave herself a mental shake. She would not be kissing Snape in any forests, tropical or otherwise. He wouldn't follow her.

Luna was right about Sirius not liking her. He had never liked Viktor, either. Hermione had always suspected Ron was only saved from his disdain because his relationship with Hermione had lasted all of a week before they'd looked at each other, laughed, and said, "What are we _doing_?"

She'd always remained friends with her exes. Until Sirius. Looking at her watch, she sighed. Unless Sirius had changed his schedule, he would be leaving for Sunday lunch at Harry's within the next hour. He hadn't missed a week since his return. She could talk to Kreacher without having to see Sirius.

Number 11 and 13 obligingly shifted out of the way as Hermione approached, revealing her former home. The front of Number 12 looked dingier than usual. It always did at this time of year, when everything around it was all browns and greys. Like it faded along with the leaves every autumn. Not that it ever looked particularly vibrant in summer or spring, either.

Kreacher squinted up at her when he answered her knock. "Master Sirius is unavailable, Miss," he said.

"Yeah, I guessed he would be. I'm here to see you, Kreacher. May I come in?"

He shrugged his bony shoulders. "If Miss likes."

They went down to the kitchen together, Hermione refusing a cup of tea and beckoning him to sit next to her at the table.

"Is Miss coming home?" he asked.

Hermione frowned. Were Kreacher and Sirius not getting along anymore? Harry would step in if that was the case, wouldn't he?

"No, I'm not coming home, Kreacher. May I cast a few diagnostic spells on you?" She drew her wand. "It's for work. It would help me out a lot. You won't feel anything, I promise."

He grumbled, but agreed without putting up any sort of argument. It took three swishes and flicks of her wand to confirm what she'd suspected. It was there. That same magical signature.

Forced. He had been forced.

"Oh, Kreacher," she whispered. "What are we going to do?"

"Miss?"

Before she could think of a response, a familiar voice said her name. Sirius stood at the base of the stairs. The inscrutable look he gave her made her see Terry in his grey eyes. Hermione shot to her feet.

"What are you doing here?" Sirius asked.

"Sorry. I needed to speak to Kreacher. Work thing. I thought you'd be at Harry's."

"Ah. I see."

Silence. Like they didn't know each other anymore. Muttering something about too many guests, Kreacher shuffled out of the kitchen.

"I should go," Hermione said. "I got what I came for. Sorry again."

"All right."

No arguments? No comments about her invading his space and checking up on him? As Hermione slid past him, she studied his face. There was something off—something that reminded her of those first few days after his return.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly. They had loved each other, once.

He gave her a half-smile. "I will be. Don't worry about me."

She scoffed. "Yeah, _that_ doesn't sound cryptic."

The smile gained a bit more traction, but it still didn't reach his eyes. "I'm all right. Genuinely. Go on, go do your own cryptic Department of Mysteries business."

It didn't feel right to leave him, somehow. She would Floo Harry and ask him to check in on Sirius.

* * *

Upon arriving back in Manchester, Hermione found Snape leaning against her building, dressed in Muggle clothing. His jacket was open, revealing a Bowie t-shirt that looked as if he'd had it since his teen years. She took a moment to wonder about him as a teenager—about him being in love with Lily Evans. And that was not a pang of jealousy. It wasn't.

"Granger," he said.

"Snape."

"May I come in?"

There was no other answer she could give. Her body leaned towards him of its own volition, tilting her face up for a kiss that lasted longer than it should have in public.

"Yes."

As soon as they crossed the threshold of her flat, he was on her: pinning her to the wall, crushing his lips to hers, slipping a hand into her knickers when she murmured yes.

Later, she would examine this encounter under a microscope. She would wonder what every lingering touch meant—if he'd been memorising the way she felt, the way she tasted. In the moment, she only begged for more. They fell to the sofa, battling with shifting cushions as he thrust into her from behind. She almost thought she could come from the sound of his voice alone—from the way he kept saying _Hermione._

"Are you ever going to call me that in ordinary, day-to-day life?" she asked after they collapsed, sated, in a tangle of limbs. "Hermione, I mean."

He snorted. "I didn't think you meant _oh fuck yes_." His lips skimmed over her jaw. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then." A few firmer presses of his lips trailed down her neck. "Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"May I stay?"

She blinked. "Of course."

They showered together—getting distracted with lathering each other up—and brushed their teeth before climbing into her bed. To Hermione's utter astonishment, Severus wrapped his arms around her from behind: the big spoon to her little. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

"By the way," he said, so casually, as if they weren't _cuddling_. "What was that bizarre drawing in your lounge?"

"The bird?" She laughed. "That would be a creature that Luna discovered. She's working in the Caribbean now, did you know? She said she wants to name that bird after me."

"How fitting." He kissed her shoulder. "I was surprised to learn of your previous involvement with Miss Lovegood."

"Why?"

"I did teach both of you, if you'll recall. Miss Lovegood was rather entertaining at times, but her approach to everything was very much the opposite of yours."

Hermione yawned. "That's true. Which is possibly why we are better off as friends."

"You have rather… _eclectic_ taste in partners."

"Is that what we're becoming?" she whispered. "Partners?"

It was a silly question to ask. She was going to leave the country. Still, she couldn't resist. His reply took several heart-stopping moments to arrive. When it did, she could hear the smile in his voice.

"I would like that."

* * *

Stretching her arms overhead, Hermione yawned. The faint yellow glow of the streetlights sneaked through the gaps in her curtains, illuminating the spot on the bed next to her. The empty spot.

"Severus?"

No answer.

It didn't take long to search her tiny flat. Severus wasn't anywhere. The only evidence he'd ever been there at all was the pleasant ache between her thighs and two books on the kitchen worktop: his first edition of _Hogwarts, a History_ and a dogeared copy of _Brewing for Elves_.

He'd left copious notes in the margins of the latter. As Hermione flipped through his corrections and modifications, a single sheet of parchment fell out of the middle of the book and fluttered to the floor. A note to her, in his familiar handwriting.

_Hermione,_

_None of it was a lie._

— _Severus_

A heavy, sinking sensation dragged through Hermione's chest and stomach. Before she could think too deeply on why Severus would leave her such a note, a _tap-tap-tap_ at the window drew her attention. Derek, Sirius's owl, ruffled his feathers to shake off the mix of rain and snow that had settled on him.

"Hello," Hermione said, letting Derek in. "I'm getting all the letters today. Not sure I'm emotionally prepared for whatever this one is, to be honest."

Derek cared nothing for her emotional stability. He had another letter tied to his other leg—important business to attend to. Once Hermione had untied the roll of parchment addressed to her, Derek accepted the treat she offered him, gave her finger an affectionate nip, and soared back into the night.

_Hermione,_

_I don't know why I'm writing to you._

_Snape is right. And the world must be bloody ending if I'm saying that. I can't decide whether you'll be annoyed with me or proud of me for what I'm about to do. Maybe both. You'll find out soon enough._

_How's that for cryptic?_

_I didn't know Terry, but I hope he would have been all right with this. I know I would, in his place. I didn't protect them. She deserves this. So does Harry. And Snape sure as hell won't do the hard part. Coward._

_I'm sorry for the way things turned out between us. I think it was probably always headed that way, but I did love you. I hope you know that._

— _Sirius_

What on earth? What was he planning? She deserves this? So does Harry?

Harry. She'd forgotten to Floo him about Sirius. Rushing back to her bedroom and throwing on a dressing gown, she chucked a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace and stuck her head into the flames.

Harry, when he eventually woke up, had no idea what Sirius might be up to. Sirius had begged off lunch with the excuse that he was feeling under the weather. Harry said he would Floo Sirius and make sure everything was okay.

Ending the fire-call, Hermione had an odd feeling of walking these steps before, taking these same shallow breaths. She paced back and forth, waiting for Harry to get back to her. It didn't feel right. Something in Sirius's words—

A ghostly dolphin Patronus swam into the room.

"Emergency at the Department of Mysteries," it said in Penelope Clearwater's voice. "There's been a break-in. You're needed in the Death Chamber."

* * *

The floor of the Death Chamber had been defaced with paint. It was the disappearing-reappearing stuff sold at George's shop: now bright white and stark against the grey stones.

Hermione knew what she was seeing—she _knew_ —but it still took her a moment to recover enough from the gut-punch to process it. That handwriting. That spell.

She knew that spell. No one else did, save the Department Head and a boy who had faded away years ago. It even had the additions she'd discovered: how to target someone specific, rather than dragging a soul back at random. A trapped scream rattled in her throat.

_I wished to work with you._

Not a lie. Severus had wanted to work with the only person who had witnessed what had happened to Terry. All those early mornings. He must have been searching for the coded records about Terry's accident.

Various spells tied the hands and tongues of Unspeakables. If they tried to speak certain information in the presence of the uninitiated, it would come out as nonsense. Trying to write anything classified outside Department walls would generate nothing but scribbles. Severus had left that painted spell here for someone.

"Unspeakable Granger?" a stern-faced wizard said. Hermione recognised him and his partner, but she couldn't place their names. Everything in her mind except _that spell_ was white noise. "Can we have a word?"

She nodded numbly.

"When was the last time you saw Sirius Black?"

The painted stone floor felt as if it fell out from underneath her. Sirius. He was the someone.

_Snape is right._

_I didn't know Terry, but I hope he would have been all right with this_.

_And Snape sure as hell won't do the hard part. Coward._

Sirius knew more than any other uninitiated person, didn't he? That would have made it easier. Sirius had been part of it the first time, too.

"I saw Sirius yesterday," she said. "Around lunchtime. Is he—"

"What have you told him about the spell that brought him back from beyond the Veil?"

"I haven't—I _couldn't_ tell him anything, beyond the fact that it was Terry who cast it. Everything else was classified."

"Do you know the whereabouts of Severus Snape?"

Somewhere over the Atlantic, at a guess. She could still feel the echo of his touch.

"No," she said. "I don't. Is Sirius…"

The stern face softened slightly. "He's gone. Same spell as Unspeakable Boot."

_I wished to work with you._

Hermione's eyes stung. Her throat felt tight, like if she tried to breathe it would come out as a sob.

Over in the corner, on one of the benches, a figure sat huddled in a blanket, surrounded by Unspeakables. Hermione could guess her identity. Her stomach lurched.

On leaden feet, she crossed towards the group, following the bright beacon of red hair. She recognised that beautiful face at a glance, even though she'd only ever seen it in photographs.

The light shifted, and there it was: a glimmer of Sirius, of Terry. Swallowing down the grief, Hermione forced herself to meet those familiar green eyes.

"Hello, Lily."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the final chapter early, as it was finished and I didn't want to leave you dangling on that cliff any longer than necessary. This fic is now complete. There won't be an epilogue or any outtakes. Thank you all for reading. xx

_Previously: The light shifted, and there it was: a glimmer of Sirius, of Terry. Swallowing down the grief, Hermione forced herself to meet those familiar green eyes._

" _Hello, Lily."_

* * *

_None of it was a lie._

Hermione tightened her grip on her mug. It was the same chipped Sports Direct one that Harry had given her before, when she'd dropped hints about where she would go if she left the country. The tea had gone cold.

Well, now she had one less thing to leave behind. She bit down hard on her lip, trying to conceal the trembling.

"I don't remember that," Lily—Mrs Potter—said softly. Hermione was trying to call her Mrs Potter to avoid confusion with Harry's daughter, but it was difficult. She was so young. Not much older than Terry had been when he'd vanished.

"Yeah," Harry said, pausing to take a sip of tea. For his part, Harry had only stammered a little when saying _Mum_. "Sirius didn't remember it, either. It was you and him and Dad and Remus with me in the forest, before it happened."

Mrs Potter pressed her lips together. "I'm glad you weren't alone."

Hermione had always been grateful for that, too—that Harry had faced death with the spectres of loved ones by his side.

"I just don't understand why I'm here," Mrs Potter said, wiping a tear from her cheek. "Why did he do it?"

"I got a letter," Harry said. "It arrived after the fact. He… Well, he always felt guilty about Terry. He was ready to jump back through the Veil for him as soon as he found out what happened. And he felt guilty that he hadn't been able to protect you and Dad, too. He said something about how he could give one of you a second chance, so he was going to."

Mrs Potter shook her head. "No, I meant Sev, not Sirius. Sirius, I understand, but Sev and I haven't even _spoken_ since fifth year. And the fact that those two actually plotted something together… I cannot wrap my mind around that."

 _Sev_. The nickname curdled in Hermione's stomach.

"Oh," Harry said. He stared at the polished surface of the oak table, avoiding eye contact "He, err. Well, he always felt really guilty about your death, too, I think. I spoke to Kreacher about it; he said Snape came around a few times. I'm struggling to imagine that happening without the two of them ending up in a duel, to be honest."

"What's going to happen with Kreacher now?" Hermione asked, latching onto the potential distraction like a lifeline.

She _needed_ Kreacher. No other elf trusted her enough.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I think he might actually be yours now."

And Hermione had thought she was beyond being shocked by anything after the night she'd had. Leave it to Harry Potter to prove her wrong.

"Pardon?" she said.

"I didn't think anything of it at the time, but a couple of weeks ago, Sirius asked if I'd be upset if he changed his will to leave Grimmauld Place to you." Harry winced. "I was kind of an arse about it, actually. I told him go ahead, but it wouldn't get you to change your mind."

"Change your mind about what?" Mrs Potter asked.

"Taking him back," Hermione said. "Sirius is— _was_ —my ex."

Mrs Potter's green eyes went wide. "Sirius dated someone Harry's age? Actually, wait, no. I don't know why I'm surprised by that."

Hermione wondered if Mrs Potter would be shocked to know what _Sev_ had done with someone Harry's age.

"I guess Sirius left the house to you because he knew you couldn't find an affordable place in London," Harry said. "And it was your home for quite a while."

It would not be her home now. She couldn't imagine sleeping there without her stomach pitching and roiling.

And she never wanted to see that desk again.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was late turning in an assignment.

Technically she had been late before, but she maintained that those instances did not count. She couldn't have been expected to complete homework while she'd been petrified.

This time, it was on purpose. Instead of writing her progress report at a desk, she was holed up in the loo, sat upon a closed toilet lid, doing Arithmantic calculations. The toilets were still in the Department of Mysteries, so the charms allowed her to write out work-related information there. A loophole she'd discovered during her third year of being an Unspeakable, when she had been so excited about a new idea for a project that she'd taken out a notebook at the sink, hands still dripping wet.

She was close to a breakthrough with a potion for the elves. She could _feel_ it. Scanning the page, she memorised all she'd written. It was like being back at Hogwarts, studying for an exam. The ghost of her Boggart whispered threats about failure.

"Incendio," she said once she was satisfied she'd committed it to memory. Dropping the ashes into the toilet, she flushed them away.

Sympathetic glances found her from beneath indigo hoods as she navigated the maze back to the Thought Chamber. They all thought she spent so much time in the loo because she was crying. Grief had granted her leeway on her assignment as well. Hell, grief had allowed her to _keep_ the assignment. After she'd been cleared of suspicion in the _incident_ , there had been talk of reassigning her to another Chamber, but she had claimed she needed the distraction. Saying a silent apology to Sirius for using him like this, she returned to her station.

"All right, Hermione?" Penelope asked.

"Yeah, fine, thanks."

Penelope's smile was too bright. Hermione hated to see her standing in Snape's old spot. That much cheer and chattiness didn't belong at his station. It was like Snape and Hermione had developed their own language for the Thought Chamber, composed of wry smiles and snark, and Penelope didn't speak a word of it.

Hermione would hate to see him standing there, too.

She would love to see him there.

* * *

The bird looked like Luna's, but its colours were more muted. A female, Hermione guessed. The brown paper-wrapped parcel the bird offered her was small and light, like it was filled with air. Inside, she found a S.P.E.W. badge. Or, a close approximation of one. The violently bright lime green background with dark blue text was right, but the letters were slightly off—not her adolescent scrawl. Tucked alongside the badge was a tiny roll of parchment with too-familiar handwriting.

_If you wish to talk, cast Portus._

An illegal Portkey that would take her to a mystery location. Excellent idea. Very safe.

But, gods, she wanted answers. She set the badge down on the coffee table. Pacing back and forth across the worn floorboards of her lounge, she groaned. The flat was too hot. That was why she dashed to her wardrobe to throw on a t-shirt and shorts. Not because she was going to a potentially tropical location.

When she returned to the lounge to slip on a pair of trainers, the bright green of the badge was all she could see. Steeling herself, she picked it up.

She had to know. Clasping the badge tight, the metal clasp digging into the sensitive pads of her fingers, she raised her wand.

"Portus."

The badge glowed bright blue, and that hooked-by-the-navel sensation carried her away.

Hermione landed in a grove of towering mahogany trees that was too green and alive for February. Real heat closed in around her—the sort that would make Londoners flock to Brighton in droves for the weekend. The distinctive sensation of wards shivered up her back. The magic tasted familiar, like a Silencing Charm that had once hidden her moans during a party.

She barely had time to get her bearings before Snape arrived with a pop. He looked… Not well, exactly. Healthy enough, but with dark circles beneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept since he'd last been in her bed.

Good. Neither had she.

His gaze locked with hers, taking her in almost greedily. Hermione's heart skipped around a little, her hands shaking as if she couldn't quite contain whatever nameless thing it was that look made her feel. It was something bright and too sweet, growing brighter still when he almost took a step towards her.

"Granger," he said.

Back to Granger, then. Hermione deflated, just a little.

"Snape," she said.

There was no such thing as silence in a forest this alive. Birds and insects made noises all around them, but for a moment, Hermione and Snape, at least, were quiet and still.

"Lies by omission are still lies," she said. It was as good a start as any.

He gave a slight incline of his head. Whether he was agreeing with her or simply acknowledging that she'd spoken, she couldn't guess.

"Why?" she asked. "Why did you do it—any of it?"

He straightened his shoulders, apparently ready for this. "What would you do if your actions led to the murder of a childhood friend? Potter, perhaps—or maybe Miss Lovegood would be a better comparison? Would you cast the spell yourself to bring her back, as I originally intended to do?"

The words hit her in the sternum. He'd planned to fade away—to let himself be replaced.

How could anyone carry so much guilt for so long?

"What?" she breathed.

"It was my plan from the start. It is why I requested an assignment in the Thought Chamber."

"With me."

"Yes."

"And you, what? Tried to get closer to me? Gain my trust so I'd tell you everything?"

"As I already told you, none of what transpired between us was a lie. Nothing we did—nothing you _saw_."

Kisses and touches and tropical fantasies. Hermione took a shaky breath. He had still chosen to go through with his plan, no matter what he felt for her.

"And as I already told you," she said, "lies by omission are still lies." She hated her voice for breaking. She turned to avoid looking at him. "Tell me the omitted parts, then."

"Black approached me," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Initially, he asked about bringing Mr Boot back from the dead. He believed I might help him where others—those who cared for him—would not. He was correct, but after I confirmed that Boot was not retrievable, I mentioned that certain others were."

"So you planted the idea in his head? Of bringing her back?"

"Yes, but he was a willing participant."

That didn't feel like it mattered much. Willing or not, Sirius was still gone. Still lost the same way Terry had been.

"I could have just shown up here, grabbed your arm, and dragged you back with me, you know," she said.

"You could have, but I didn't believe you would. I trust you."

"The feeling is not mutual."

"No, I didn't imagine it would be."

Hermione knew she needed to go, but she wanted him to keep talking until the weight in her chest eased.

"If it means anything," he said, "I am sorry."

"Sorry you did it, or sorry I'm angry?"

He took a moment to consider. "I am sorry for the lies by omission." His lips flirted with the idea of a smile, quirking ever so slightly at the corners. "And, yes, that you are angry."

What would she have done if he had told her his plans? If Sirius had told her? What would she have said to that? Tried to talk them out of it? More than anything, she would have wanted to tell Harry, but that would have been impossible. Charms would have held her tongue.

Not knowing what else to say, she leant against the red-brown trunk of one of the younger trees. She wanted to tell Snape she did not forgive him. She wanted to tell him she missed him.

"I still can't believe you and Sirius actually worked together on something," was what came out instead.

He gave a brittle laugh. "It is rather astonishing, yes."

"Maybe I didn't check you thoroughly enough for evidence that you were a Polyjuiced impostor when you returned to the Wizarding World."

"I am who I claim to be, I assure you."

Of course he was. No one else could have kept so many secrets.

"I think I should go," she said.

"Very well. The badge will transport you back to your flat."

Funny; she'd never doubted that it would. He could have stranded her here. She hadn't even brought a passport or any money. She'd leapt off of a cliff, believing he would catch her.

Before she could think better of it, she closed the distance between them and touched her lips to his. A goodbye kiss. Her last chance to memorise how this felt—how he felt. His mouth moved against hers gently, his arms wrapping around her like he could keep her there. She threaded her fingers through his hair like she would let him.

When she got home, she pinned the badge to a scarf.

* * *

Snape hadn't asked about Mrs Potter. It had taken Hermione a few days to realise it. All of that work, all of those months of sneaking around for her sake, and he hadn't even inquired about Mrs Potter's wellbeing.

Hermione walked to Grimmauld Place, taking the four miles to settle herself, like she had that day she'd first worked with the elf brain. The day she'd broken up with Sirius.

It didn't work. The potion was in her bag—vials upon vials of it, brewed at home to get around the Ministry. Hermione wouldn't be able to settle until it was in Kreacher's possession and she knew without a doubt that it was effective.

Just like she'd done the last time she'd taken this walk, she turned onto Ginny and Cho's street. They still had their Christmas decorations up: a little bit of brightness in the longest part of winter.

Ginny greeted Hermione at the door with a kiss on the cheek and an offer of leftovers from Molly. Cho smiled. The picture of Marietta scowled. It was just an ordinary Tuesday to them. They didn't know it was the last one they would all spend together like this.

Gods, she had to think of something else before she started crying.

"Hermione," Ginny said, "if you wanted kids and you were going to ask one of my brothers to father them for you, which one would you choose?"

Well. That did it. Hermione laughed.

"I have no idea," she said. "I've never given it any consideration."

"We're thinking of asking one of them and having Cho carry the baby," Ginny said. "My first choice is Charlie. Makes sense, right? Not only does he live all the way in Romania, he doesn't have or want any kids of his own. He's the ideal candidate. But Cho wants Percy. Honestly. Four perfectly fine options, and she goes with Percy. Don't get me wrong, I love him, but… _Percy_."

"Do you know how many NEWTs Percy got?" Cho asked.

"Yes, in fact. I only heard about it every bloody day the summer after he left Hogwarts."

Hermione grinned. "You want Percy because you think he's your best chance at getting a Ravenclaw, don't you?"

Ginny gasped. "That's it, isn't it? Cho!"

Hermione let them bicker affectionately as she ate her shepherd's pie. She tried to appreciate the creamy mashed potato and perfectly seasoned mince, but Molly's cooking was wasted on her. Everything tasted like ash.

When the plate was empty, she hugged them both and said goodbye. They didn't know.

* * *

The troll-foot umbrella stand was still in the same place, and Walburga screeched at Hermione like always, but none of it felt familiar. It was like pieces of a different life—someone she used to be.

Kreacher popped into the spot next to her as soon as she crossed the threshold.

"Mistress," he said, bowing so deeply his nose almost touched the ground.

Hermione winced. "Hello, Kreacher. I have something for you," she said, pulling one of the vials out of her bag. "There's more, for… Well. You'll see."

Kreacher looked askance at the vial. The potion was a clear purple, shot through with strands of silver.

"Kreacher is supposed to drink it?"

"It won't hurt. It'll make you better."

He turned that suspicious glare on her. Understandable. Voldemort had forced him to drink that potion in the cave. No matter how much he trusted Hermione now, he was still wary of potions. When he'd been ill the previous winter, Sirius had needed to command him to drink his prescribed potions. The stubborn expression Kreacher wore now reminded her of when his ownership had been transferred to Harry—when he'd chanted _won't, won't, won't_ before Harry's first direct order.

"Kreacher," she said. "Drink it."

He couldn't disobey. Tilting his head back, he tipped the vial down his throat. His eyes glazed over for a few breath-stealing moments. Had she done something wrong? Mangled her calculations? But then Kreacher looked at her— _really_ looked at her.

"Told you it would make you better," she whispered.

His mouth worked, as if searching for the right words. "What is this?" he finally croaked.

"Kreacher, make me a cup of tea."

He grimaced. "Kreacher does not… Mistr… _What is this?_ "

"You're free."

He shuddered at the mention, but it was like a reflex—an old habit.

"You feel it, right?" she asked. "How everything has changed. No one can make you do anything you don't want to do anymore."

He scowled. "Is Kreacher supposed to thank Hermione? Grovel at Hermione's feet?"

He'd never called her Hermione before.

"No. That's not what I—"

"How long did Hermione know? How long did Hermione let elves serve bad wizards?"

Too long. "I'm sorry, Kreacher." She placed the bag on the table, reaching inside to extract her Muggle suitcase. The vials inside the beaded bag clinked as she pushed it towards Kreacher. "That's for you. For the others." She paused. "Are you going to give it to them?"

He glared at her like she was the one who had imprisoned the elves. Like he didn't trust her. Hermione bit her lip. Something else she didn't have to leave behind, because it was already gone.

As Hermione opened the heavy front door, Walburga started up again. Kreacher silenced the portrait with a wave of his hand.

* * *

The lion hat towered above the rest of the crowd in the arrivals lounge at Punta Cana International Airport. Not animated and roaring, as it had been at Quidditch matches in their school days, but still alarming enough to make people edge away from Luna.

"Hello, Hermione!" Luna said, wrapping her up in a tight hug.

"Hi." Hermione laughed. "Why the hat?"

"I wanted you to be able to spot me. How was your flight?"

"Long. I'm completely knackered."

"I'm not surprised." Luna adjusted something on her top—a genuine S.P.E.W. badge. "You've been busy. It's already in the papers here."

"Is it?" Hermione asked. Of course Luna would have guessed that Hermione had been involved with the recent developments with the elves.

"Oh, yes. It's all very dramatic." Tucking Hermione's free arm into hers, Luna meandered towards the exit, the crowd parting for the lion hat. "Lots of talk about wizarding society being thrown into chaos. The Purebloods are not happy. They think it's the apocalypse. Harry is already speaking up for the elves, of course."

Hermione gave a strained smile. "Of course."

They emerged into that same humid heat that had slammed into Hermione when she'd taken the Portkey. She almost expected to see Snape waiting for her next to the taxi rank, but no. No one but strangers.

"I made a new friend," Luna said.

"Oh?"

"He's rather prickly. If I ever name a magical creature after him, it will be one with spines and a regretful aura."

"Regretful," Hermione said flatly.

Luna hummed. "I think he would like to see you."

Hermione's heart beat faster. She didn't answer.

* * *

At this time of year, the skies were a constant, clear blue. Hermione weaved through mahogany trees, searching. Again and again, she thought she'd found _their_ grove, only for it to amount to nothing.

Luna could have easily arranged a meeting, but some stubborn part of Hermione wanted to find him herself, like it would be some sort of sign if she stumbled onto the right place.

Gods. Trelawney would have loved to hear her talk like that.

Wards tingled over her skin, raising the hair on the back of her neck. No sooner had she registered their presence than he appeared: popping into view beneath the largest tree, looking at her like he never wanted to stop.

She wanted to scream about how angry she still was. How hurt. She wanted to stay with him in the forest and fight or fuck until they sorted everything out.

"Hermione," he said.

Not Granger. It was a start. She took a deep breath.

"Severus."


End file.
